To Fall On Our Faces
by Miroslav
Summary: When Percy has to attend a Quidditch match on orders of Scrigemour, things do not turn out quite as he plans. Sequel to Glimpses, PercyOliver slash


(Title: To Fall on Our Faces  
Author: Miroslav  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Oliver/Percy  
Spoilers: Half-Blood Prince  
Summary: _Quidditch, without Oliver, is like cake without frosting. It is boring without its perfect adornment._ When Percy has to attend a Quidditch match on orders of Scrigemour, things do not turn out quite as he plans.  
Sequel to: Glimpses)

_**To Fall On Our Faces **_

"_I want love_

_To carry me through_

_All the moments, I'd kindly undo_

_Locked away_

_So I can feel safe_

_Now that I'm down on my knees, begging for change_

_Look down at the water_

_Before I jump in_

_To find I was sinking fast, in all the might have been." _

"Final Answer" by The Calling

People think Percy doesn't love, that he is just a power-hungry fool with a stick up his arse. He is, he admits to himself in the privacy of his head, power-hungry, and probably _does _have a stick up his arse, but that doesn't mean he has lost the ability to love.

In fact, he loves. He loves desperately, with the kind of single-minded determination that works well when he studies for classes but not so well when he is trying to study faces. Rules were put in place to keep people safe, and in Percy's head people are only harmed if they break the rules, so to show he cares he nags his brothers, fretting over every rule they break, certain it will eventually blow up in their faces.

It hurts when they get angry and claim he doesn't really care. It is a deep ache that makes his bones hurt and his voice come out sharper than he means. And _that_ causes even more anger directed at him. It is a vicious cycle, but Percy is helpless to stop it. It began long ago, when Mother was laden by Ron and then Ginny in her womb, Charlie and Bill were safe at Hogwarts, Father was always busy with the war, and so Percy was left to care for the twins, to keep them out of trouble as they hid from the Death Eaters in various safe houses. He suspects perhaps there was a time before the war when his childhood would have been filled with laugher, but instead he only remembers tension, a deep, mournful tension that made his chest ache as painfully as it does now.

Percy cares for everyone in his family, from his Muggle-loving father to his youngest, fiercely independent sister. Even if no one understands him, even if they mock him, he cares, and so he smothers them with affection in the guise of being a control-freak. He suspects they hate him, and the suspicion buries itself deep in his brain and controls his tongue, making his scolding harsher, colder than it needs to be. Sometimes he wants to stop and just say, "I'm worried about you" but the demon of suspicion controls his tongue and instead he just scolds his family with even more venomous words.

His family never believes him when he speaks of his love for Penelope. He doesn't blame them – they see through the lie. When he kisses Penelope, it is businesslike, a mutual benefit of investigating what everyone else thinks is so interesting. Her kisses taste like textbooks and obligations to normalcy, and he cannot help but picture someone else's face as he kisses her. (He is sure she does the same.)

He pictures, of all people, Oliver Wood, with his intense features and muscular frame made even more muscular by hours of Quidditch. Sometimes, when the silence of the textbook kisses has gotten too much for him, he imagines Oliver whispering his name in that velvety Scottish accent of his.

He doesn't think Penelope knows who he pictures. He hopes not, because if anyone knew, hell, if the _twins_ knew, he would never hear the end of it, and even his mother's love, which is the only thing truly constant in his life, would be torn from him, for even a mother cannot be expected to love a pervert of a son. Someday he will slip up, and moan the other boy's name aloud. He doesn't know what will happen then. He suspects Penelope will slap him and there will be no more kisses of bitter normalcy, but he doesn't know if she will tell anyone. It is so hard to keep a secret at Hogwarts.

At least now that he's with Penelope, the family won't suspect. Even when his relationship with Penelope dissolves as soon as they graduate, he thinks they will just mark it as a school fling, and wait for him to find some "nice girl to settle down with." Bill and Charlie haven't found a girl -- it will take a few years for his mother to get concerned when he finds no suitable girl to marry. During that time, he will have gained rank in the Ministry so perhaps…perhaps she'll be able to put aside his failure to marry and just delight in his success.

Still, there are times…there are times when he just looks at Oliver and almost weeps at the intensity of his longing. And when he is alone, he does weep, because it is so _hard _to want something that beautiful and know that beauty is unobtainable.

Percy loves. He loves desperately, with the kind of single-minded determination that works well when he studies for classes but not so much when he is trying to hold onto the affections of others.

It doesn't seem like three years since he graduated Hogwarts. It doesn't seem like he's twenty, either, but he supposes things are never as they seem. He is now the Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic himself, Rufus Scrigemour.

That is why he is standing here, shivering, watching the Puddlemere United and the Chudley Cannons wheel through the sky during their game warm-ups, rather than sitting quietly behind a desk and sorting papers on behalf of the Minister. Percy has been personally asked to oversee a Quidditch match to see if there is any possibility that a group of Death Eaters would be able to attack and decimate the stands. If there proves to be one, he will have to suggest to the Minister that they end Quidditch indefinitely.

Why, he wonders as the cold wind nips at his nose, did it have to be the _Puddlemere United_? Even the reserve team practices before the game, just in case, and somehow his eyes are drawn to one of the soaring figures. He knows it is Oliver even before the man breaks away from the main group and goes to join his fellow Keeper by the goal posts.

Percy squints up. There are no clouds in the frost-bitten blue sky, and so the sun burns his eyes but doesn't warm his skin. He watches Oliver make a dizzying block, and exhales slowly, smoke billowing from his lips. He is oblivious to the fact that people are jostling him, or that a timid attendant is trying to lead him to his box seat.

"Sir? Sir?"

He blinks and finally stares at the attendant, who is cold and shivering and miserable and obviously wanting to be anywhere but near this aloof Ministry official who doesn't seem the type to even know what a Quaffle _is_.

"I'm sorry. I was just…thinking how cold it must be up there," he says, by way of both apology and explanation, but the attendant seems to buy it, and nods before leading him to his seat, a cushioned chair and a box seat so that the air is not stinging his face anymore.

As soon as the attendant leaves, Percy presses his hands to the cool glass that separates him from the Quidditch field, and stares up at Oliver once more. His heart lurches unsteadily in his chest, and he wishes once again that it had been any match but one with the Puddlemere United. How will he be able to concentrate?

But Oliver is reserve, he reminds himself. Oliver will be sitting with his teammates and out of sight, and so Percy will be able to watch the crowd and see if there is any danger then. And that is what happens. Oliver retreats to the sidelines, the non-reservists take to the air, and the game begins.

Quidditch, without Oliver, is like cake without frosting. It is boring without its perfect adornment, and so Percy loses interest quickly, and studies the stands for any weakness. It is all too easy to see the flaws and the danger lurking in every corner, and with each passing moment, Percy realizes that he will have to suggest to Scrigemour to cancel Quidditch indefinitely.

And then, fifty minutes in, the Puddlemere United Keeper is struck by a stray Bludger and carted away with a concussion, and the icing adorns the cake once more. He watches, marveling at this ironic twist in fate, as Oliver takes to the sky. All thoughts of the Minister's expectations vanish, and memories and visions of Oliver cluster within his brain instead.

Somehow, he finds himself outside, among the cheering throng, pressed against the railing that keeps the masses from swarming the field at the end of a game. The wind slaps his face and pinches his cheeks, but he ignores it, just gazing at that steady figure that blocks the Cannons' attempts to score.

"That Wood, he's doing well!" a voice comments beside him, and he turns to automatically smile at whoever's complimenting Oliver, but then he freezes as a cool, condescending voice sneers, "Anyone would do well against the Cannons. That kid's just a reservist, nothing more."

Even with the stinging cold that is still whipping at his exposed face, Percy feels his cheeks heat with anger at the implied insult. Before he can consider his words or the fact that he is there on behalf of the Ministry, he snaps, "Oliver Wood is _extremely_ talented! That's why he's up there and you're in the stands!"

"Excuse me?"

Percy realizes he should've looked at the man before he spoke, for he turns to frown at the man and finds himself craning his neck. The other man has to have some sort of giant blood in him, for he is enormous, with bulging muscles and a very angry expression that does not bode well.

"Excuse me?" the man growls again, and Percy swallows.

"I…I said, that you're wrong." He shrinks against the railing as the man looms over him, but continues, partly out of defense of his fellow year-mate and partly out of the fear that is making him babble. "Oliver Wood's a talented Keeper. I saw him at Hogwarts. He's a great Keeper."

The man glowers. "I think you need to mind your own business, boy."

He swallows again, yet his traitorous tongue keeps wagging. "And I…I think you need to be more respectful towards Quidditch players. They have trained really hard, and they have earned some respect--"

Even if Percy had been thinking that the man was extremely unpleasant, he hadn't expected the man to, well, punch him. The blow sends him reeling backwards and suddenly instead of the man's glowering face he finds himself staring at the frost-bitten sky and the wheeling figures of various Quidditch players.

His entire face hurts, but most of all his nose. It feels as though someone has put an ember beneath the cartilage, and he grabs at his nose even as he scrambles to his feet and stares at the man, only to give an undignified yelp as the man leaps over the railing and starts towards him again.

"Look, I didn't mean--" But the words slur and almost dribble from his lips, much like the blood that is dribbling from his nose and getting into his mouth. Gagging at the taste, he struggles to apologize, to explain, to say anything that will make the man lower his fists--

The man keeps coming, and Percy finds himself retreating, ignoring the frantic whistle of the referee and the orders to leave the field. He'd leave if the man would let him! He throws up his hands to block another blow, a blow that never comes. Instead, he feels the man's hands grab his shoulders and lift him from the ground, and suddenly he is being shaken like a limp rag. All of his breath is rattled from him, but even as blackness appears at the corners of his eyes, he cannot help but think the man is overreacting.

Then suddenly he is sprawled back on the ground, and staring at the sky again, a sky that surprisingly looks a lot like Oliver Wood's face.

"Percy? _Percy Weasley_?"

Even the wind sounds like Oliver Wood's voice, with its beautiful Scottish accent, and Percy smiles a little dazedly and just listens as the wind says again, "Percy? Are you all right? Why did that man just attack you?"

Percy is confused at the sky and wind that is acting very much like Oliver Wood. His head is still spinning, and he resists the urge to just close his eyes and rest. He licks his lips, tasting blood, and the suspicion that Oliver Wood is _actually_ hovering above him enters his mind. "You're supposed to be the Keeper…."

"The game is on hiatus," remarks Oliver dryly. "We tend to do that when someone gets chased onto the field and is being shaken out of his skeleton."

"But…." He tries to sit up, and groans. He really does feel like his skeleton was almost rattled from his skin. "He overreacted. All I said was…you're a _good_ Keeper!" He tries to sit up again, and Oliver's face blurs. Hands grasp his shoulders, and even with his head spinning Percy knows these are Oliver's longer, slender fingers. "I'm fine, just…dizzy."

"We'll get a mediwitch over in a moment," says Oliver, though his voice seems far off.

"All right," Percy says, more concerned with savoring Oliver's touch than the prospect of a mediwitch fussing over him. Still relishing the touch, he closes his eyes.

He opens his eyes and wonders why he doesn't feel the grass of the Quidditch field beneath his back. This tiled ceiling is unfamiliar. His body still aches, but at least his head isn't spinning anymore and he can think clearly again. Someone has healed his nose. He frowns at the unfamiliar ceiling though, and then Oliver leans over him again.

"You all right?"

"I…where am I?"

An unfamiliar voice breaks in, cheerful. "You're in the infirmary of the Puddlemere United, mate!"

Percy sits up slowly, and stares as he realizes the entire Puddlemere United team is clustered around the cot he's been resting in.

At his stare, many of them laugh, and the man who spoke before adds, "We all had to check on the lad who defended our reserve Keeper for us against a bloke twice his size!"

"He overreacted," Percy says, and flushes when they laugh again.

"That bloke caused a brawl last time. Don't know how he got a ticket for this match, since he was supposed to be banned all season," says the apparent spokesman for the team. He makes a face. "Well, he's going to be banned for _life_ now."

"Hopefully that ban will actually work this time," Oliver says dryly, and then smiles at Percy. The smile ignites a glow of pleasure in Percy's belly, and he is certain he's blushing. "Thanks for apparently defending my honor. That idiot did quite a job on you."

Job. _Job._ "Oh no!" The words escape Percy's lips before he can even consider them. "I'm on official Ministry business, the Minister will be so _angry_--" He is almost moaning now, but Scrigemour is all about appearances, and he can already see the man's furious glare and the impending doom of 'You're fired.'

"Official Ministry business? At a Quidditch match?" Oliver's voice is tinged with disbelief, but Percy ignores the tone, scrambling off the cot and looking around as though Scrigemour will swoop in to scold him at any moment.

"Trying to make the matches safer from Death Eater attacks," he mumbles, gaze darting around for the nearest exit. "Was what I was _supposed _to do. And instead I get into a brawl with some troublemaker…."

"Hey, it'll be fine, mate. There'll be other matches." The spokesman smiles at him, trying to calm him down.

"But I--" There's an exit, but the team has encircled the cot and don't seem about to move. They are all looking amused, and so he looks desperately at Oliver. Surely Oliver will remember how important appearance was to him from their Hogwarts years.

Oliver smiles as well, though, and rests a hand on his shoulder. "There will be other matches, Percy. The man was going to punch someone. It just turned out to be you this time. The Minister won't fire you because of this, and if he tries, I'll make it into a public spectacle."

A public spectacle? Percy feels queasy at the very thought, enough not to savor the sensation of Oliver's hand on his shoulder. He is not on speaking terms with his family anymore, and suspects being fired from the Ministry would only alienate him further from the rest of the Weasley clan. He cannot afford to be fired or cause a public spectacle. But everyone is nodding, and so he sighs and sits back down on the cot and says "Thank you" because that is what they seem to expect from him. "Oh. Did you win?"

The group laughs. "It was the _Cannons_," says someone, as though that explains everything, and Oliver laughs, "Ease off, Percy's youngest brother is a die-hard Cannons fan. You have to respect the loyalty."

Oh yes. If he was home, Ron would probably be storming around the house in annoyance over yet another loss for his favorite team. "Ron's very loyal," he agrees, and surprises himself at the wistfulness in his voice. Then again, none of that loyalty was ever directed at _him_.

"Want to grab a pint?" Oliver says. "Drink's on us." He nudges one of his fellow reservists, who nods.

"I don't drink," Percy says stiffly, but his response is lost amid the raucous laughter and agreements of the other Quidditch players. He tries again, and then sighs and allows himself to be dragged from the room. He will slip away at the earliest opportunity and go and explain things to Scrigemour.

"An' so's I say, I say to 'im, Oliver Wood is ex…extremely tal'ted! An' tha's why he's up there an' you're down here!" Percy's tongue can't quite wrap around the words, but he finishes the latest description of his misadventure, and beams at the cheers. He frowns after a moment. "An' then he punched me. Wasn't…very nice o' him."

"Oh, no, not nice of him at all," says Oliver, who is sitting next to him and still nursing his first mug of ale. The Keeper looks amused, shadows dancing across his face.

Percy looks down at his own mug and frowns. How many times has he drained his mug and had it topped off again by a member of the Puddlemere United? He lifts it to his lips again, takes a swallow, and adds, "An' he was _big_. Almost as big as-as Hagrid!"

"That he was," Oliver agrees, and then tugs the mug away from Percy. "And I think you've had more ale than you should've. Time to stop toasting him, fellows."

"But he's such a cute drunk, Ollie!"

Percy frowns and squints in the direction of the speaker. Had that been the female Beater or the very male Seeker? He can't quite tell, and so just keeps frowning in bemusement. "I don't drink…usually," he announces, and then pokes Oliver in the chest. "Do you?"

"After every game," admits Oliver, and Percy tsks. Or at least he tries to. It comes out sounding more like a chuckle, and Oliver grins. "Hey, the team's a bad influence."

"Shouldn't drink," Percy scolds, oblivious to the hypocrisy as he latches onto the familiar ability to smother people with affection disguised as nagging. "It's got t'be bad for you…."

But Oliver looks amused at the nagging, and chuckles. "I'm only a social drinker, I swear."

"Shouldn't drink t'all," Percy insists, and notices some of the players roll their eyes. Some of the drunken cheer fades, and he hunches his shoulders, and mumbles, in a desperate bid to win back their affection, "Least not _'fore_ the games."

Some of those who rolled their eyes smile at that, and he beams, basking in the glow of actually being liked. "You all are nice folks. Much nicer'n the…the G-Gryffindor team."

"I was on that team too," Oliver reminds him.

Percy frowns. "Bu' the twins were on that one. They were always breakin' rules, y'know, on the field, off the field. Driving Mum mad. Pro'ly still breakin' rules with their Wheezes…."

"Wait, the Weasley Wizard Wheezes?" interjects someone, and it all goes downhill. "You're the brother of the Weasley twins? They're _amazing_."

He rolls his eyes, and the warmth of the drunken abandon leaves him. Instead of being "the man who preserved Wood's honor" he has become "the Weasley twins' brother" and the shift makes the ache flare deep in his chest again. "Troublemakers, the both o' 'em. Gonna get themselves killed, mark m'words, breakin' rule after rule after rule." Percy is barely aware that he's speaking, but the fury in his voice surprises even him. This time ignoring the rolling eyes and odd looks, he gets to his feet, and tries to nod in Oliver's direction, and then in the general direction of the group. "If you want to…talk to the twins, just pop into their shop at Diagon Alley an' mention you know Oliver. They like Oliver." The unspoken 'They don't like me' hangs in the air even as he sways and stumbles his way out of the pub.

"Percy!"

It is inconceivable that someone might actually chase after him, and so he keeps walking, hunching against the wind that pounds his face and frame and makes the ache in his chest ice-cold and piercing.

"Percy!"

Then those familiar slender fingers are on his shoulders again, and he freezes before mumbling, "I'm goin' h--" Home? Home was with his mother. "Going to m'flat. G'way."

"At least let me walk you there," Oliver says calmly. "My way of thanking you for defending me and getting a broken nose. Nobody wants to see you facedown in the gutter from drinking too much." His hands don't leave Percy's shoulders, and Percy shudders rather than shivers at the touch.

"The twins would laugh," he mumbles, to distract himself.

"The twins find most things amusing," Oliver says in that dry tone again, and squeezes Percy's shoulders before releasing him. "Now, let's go. Where do you live?"

He mumbles the street name, and begins to stumble in that direction, conscious of Oliver as the other man lopes beside him. He dares to glance at Oliver, watching the easy grace with which the Quidditch player moves. It is too cold for either of them to be showing skin, but somehow Percy can almost picture the muscles rippling under that robe beside him. Heat sears his cheeks, and he ducks his head, mumbling, "You really don't have to come along. I won't fall over…."

"You say that, but as soon as I turn my back, you'll be in the gutter." Oliver gives him a light shove in the shoulder. "C'mon, let me do my good deed for the night."

"But--" Percy goes mute as Oliver just looks at him. He flushes and ducks his head again, studying each cobblestone as he and Oliver continue their walk to his flat. "S'a small flat," he says at last to break the silence. "Just so's you know…."

Oliver chuckles. "My flat's not much better, I suspect. At least yours won't be cluttered though. You can barely see the floor in mine."

Percy thinks of his bare flat, without any mementos or memories of his family, and half-smiles, though it is a bittersweet smile. "Not cluttered t'all," he agrees, and then somehow they are already at his doorstep and he blinks in surprise before he fumbles for his key.

And then somehow they are inside. He is embarrassed and watches as Oliver looks around the stark, bare flat that Percy calls his own. "It's…definitely uncluttered," is what the Quidditch player finally says.

For some reason this is funny, for Percy finds himself laughing, harder and harder until he's breathless and leaning against the wall. At last, he mumbles between chuckles, "No knick-knacks t'all, or pictures or…anything to show I'm alive…."

"You were never one for knick-knacks," Oliver says softly.

"Or for bein' alive," he quips in response, and laughs again, only vaguely aware when the laughter turns to hiccups that are far too close to sobs for his own liking. "I'm not in a gutter. G'way now?" The last sentence comes out almost as a plea.

"Let me at least help you to your bedroom," comes the soft response, and Oliver wraps a comradely arm around him. "Where's your bedroom?"

The muscular arm around his shoulders feels good, too good, and Percy's throat closes up with a longing he hasn't felt since Hogwarts. At last he just waves a hand in the direction of the correct door, unable to speak through his yearning.

Oliver steers him through, and blinks at the equally bare room. This time he says nothing about the lack of clutter, and Percy is grateful. The Keeper retracts his arm, and Percy immediately misses the heat of the other man's skin. "So…I suppose I'll be going then."

"No gutter to be found," Percy agrees, and manages a smile. "Done your good deed." He pauses. Did he ever congratulate Oliver? "Oh, con--congrats…on the win. You were really good."

"Thanks." Oliver grins at him. "Next time you come to watch a match, tell me in advance, so I can warn you if there's an angry person in the stands you need to avoid."

He blinks. "I can come watch another one?"

Oliver laughs. "You're not restricted to one match per season, Percy. You can come to as many as you like, provided you can scrounge up money for tickets."

Percy feels himself blush. "Oh, right." He doesn't spend his paycheck on anything other than rent and food, so he might as well go and see a couple matches. "When's your next game?"

"Next Thursday."

"If it's not sold out, I'll try an' get a ticket."

"I'd like that," Oliver says, and perhaps it is the alcohol, but Percy would almost swear that there is a wistful tone to the other man's voice.

He blinks and stares, and redness spreads across Oliver's face.

"I meant…the team would like that. You really won a lot of them over."

Percy smiles a little at that, pleased that the Quidditch players actually like him, but he is more interested about the flush on the other man's cheeks. "They were all nice. A lot nicer'n the Ministry fellows." He clears his throat, alcohol making him bold. "You…um…."

"Um?" Oliver prods gently when he falters, and it is his turn to blush.

"Um, you…you…seeing any of 'em?" The words come out faltering and diffident, and he feels his face turn hotter and hotter. He is sure his ears are pink by now.

"Seeing…." The Quidditch player stares, and then suddenly his expression is blank. "No." And there is a curtness in the single word, enough so that Percy feels it like a punch.

"Oh…." There is not much to say, and suddenly Percy feels tired, weary beyond words. The euphoria of the alcohol has left him, and he looks away from that horribly empty expression on the other man's face. "Sorry. Just thought…now that you're out o' school you'd get someone…."

"Well, I haven't." And Oliver's voice is still sharp enough to wound. "I'm a reservist. That means I don't have time to mess around."

He winces at that. Mess around? "Oh," he says again, and there is a helpless note to his voice. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Oliver echoes, and laughs. "_Sorry_? For what?"

"For…that you hafta go to an empty flat." Oliver just looks at him for a moment, and only then Percy realizes how hypocritical his words were. He smiles a bit sheepishly, and adds, "I'm used to bein' alone. You…you were always with folks, like the twins an' Harry an'…. Figured it'd be lonely."

His head is still down, but he feels Oliver's gaze on him. "Lonely." There is an odd catch to the other man's voice, one that makes Percy blink and look up at him. But Oliver's face is still expressionless. "There's no time to be lonely."

The euphoria is gone, but Percy's tongue is still looser than usual. "No time to be lonely? There's _always_ time to be lonely." Right before you go to sleep, for example, or when you're too tired to concentrate on what you should be doing. He smiles a little at Oliver, acting as though Oliver is joking with him about never being lonely. "Everyone's lonely once in a while, Oliver."

"Well, I'm _not_," the other man insists, and there is that catch, that slight shake to his Scottish voice, one that makes Percy blink and stare and want to shake Oliver silly for his stubbornness.

Percy folds his arms against his chest, vaguely aware he is still swaying a little. "So I'm wrong then? You're…you're a miracle then? You don't get lonely?"

"_Yes_." Oliver runs an anxious hand through his mane, and sighs. "I mean…I'm not lonely, Percy. I'm not." It feels like Oliver is almost begging Percy to believe him, but Percy doesn't.

"You like your empty flat?" He flaps a hand around at his barren bedroom. "I don't like _mine_. I'm lonely. Are we that…that different?"

The blank expression, which is more like a mask, cracks just the slightest bit, and Oliver looks tired. "I can make do with empty flats, Percy, as long as I have Quidditch."

"But…but Scrigemour's goin' to stop Quidditch in…indefinitely." The words slip out before he even considers them, and he feels like kicking himself as Oliver's face goes white and horror-stricken.

"Stop…Quidditch?"

Now the words are rushing in torrent, and as Percy speaks he watches Oliver's face get paler and paler and his eyes get more and more anguished. "I'm…I'm supposed to tell him if Quidditch stands are safe, an' they're not, and…he'll cancel it. 'Til the end of the war."

Oliver is silent for a long moment, looking much smaller and older than Percy remembers him to be. "But…I can't do anything but Quidditch! What'll I _do_?" There is desperation in his voice, desperation that makes Percy's stomach clench. Suddenly Oliver is looking at him with feverish eyes. "You can tell him Quidditch stands are safe, Percy, and everything will be fine!"

"But they're not."

"But…but if you tell him they're not, Quidditch'll be over." Oliver's hands are on his shoulders again, and Percy feels his breath catch in his throat as the other man keeps staring at him with that feverish, hopeful gaze. "Can't we do something to make the stands safe?"

"I…" No, but it is so hard to resist making up lies to make Oliver happy. "It'd be expensive, Oliver. Real expensive."

"They can have my wages then. It's not much, but it'll help, and I can get a part-time job and…." Oliver's hands are clenched on Percy's shoulders, enough so that he winces, but Oliver doesn't notice. "And I'm sure everyone'll be willing to have a lower paycheck if they can just keep playing. Just…please don't let them take Quidditch away from me, Perce."

There are a million things Percy wants to say, but what comes out is, "Perce?"

Oliver doesn't notice though, just repeating, voice filled with anguish and desperation, "Don't let them take Quidditch away from me."

And as Percy stares at Oliver's tormented, frantic visage, he realizes that Quidditch is, and perhaps always has been, all that Oliver Wood claims as his life. The words come out gentle, and he puts his hands on top of Oliver's. "I'll tell him that they just need to up certain safety measures, like casting Anti-Appiration spells on the Quidditch grounds and in the stands."

"Really?" There is almost a pitiful relief in Oliver's voice, and Percy finds himself smiling softly.

"Really."

"Thank you," Oliver breathes, and then looks at Percy's hands that are resting atop his. "Thank you." And then Oliver kisses him. The kiss is hard and painful and yet carries an underlying sensation of gratefulness, and it is everything that Percy's dreamed of and more.

His hands tighten upon Oliver's, and he is almost dizzy. All thoughts of if a Quidditch match is attacked and he is fired flee from his head. All thoughts are of Oliver now, like the taste of alcohol still lingering on the other man's mouth or the slight metallic taste as Oliver kisses him so hard that his lip splits.

When Oliver finally breaks the kiss and smiles at him, Percy is breathing and bleeding but has never felt so good. He blinks as Oliver's smile is replaced by a frown, and feels his stomach twist.

"What's wrong?"

"Your lip." Oliver slips one of his hands out from under Percy's and presses a soft finger to the other man's cut mouth. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really." Percy smiles to reassure him, and the fact is that the stinging of his lip is nothing compared to the pure adrenaline rushing through his frame. "I…kiss me again?"

Oliver smiles and obeys, and by the time the second kiss is ended, Percy is sitting on his bed and Oliver is leaning over him, and Percy suddenly remembers the fairy tale of Cinderella. But Oliver is too perfect to be a fool like Prince Charming, who spent countless hours looking at women trying to figure out whose shoe he has, without thinking to just look at women of Cinderella's skin color or otherwise narrow it down. Prince Charming is a fool, and Oliver is not, and yet Percy feels like Cinderella must have when Prince Charming told her she would be his queen.

"Stay here?" The request is whispered, and answered with a silent nod and another kiss, this one slow and almost tender. Oliver can stay as long as he wishes, and if he ever wishes to leave…well, Percy will not stop him. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to deny Oliver anything.

And so when he wakes up the next day curled up against Oliver's sleeping form, he smiles and begins to compose an excuse as to why Quidditch should continue. After all, it will be worth his job to see Oliver in the sky again. Even if this ends, even if this ends badly, they will have had a symbiotic relationship for a little while that Percy can cherish forever. Even if they both fall on their face, and lose their livelihoods in this war, at least they will have been together.

And so he smiles, and creates a story that Scrigemour will buy.

**"_To be brave is to love someone unconditionally, without expecting anything in return. To just give. That takes courage, because we don't want to fall on our faces or leave ourselves open to hurt."_**

**Madonna**


End file.
